


Snowfall

by RosesMoment



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Anne being Anne-ish, F/M, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-29 00:30:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosesMoment/pseuds/RosesMoment
Summary: Gilbert happens upon Anne being rather Anne-ish in the snow... fluff ensues.





	Snowfall

Gilbert steps off the last train into the already dark Avonlea afternoon. It’s two days before Christmas and he’s at last escaped from beneath his mountain of Redmond coursework. He pulls his gloves from a coat pocket, puts them on and then hoists his pack onto his shoulder. It had just begun to snow. His breath crystallizes in the air before him and he smiles at the thought of Bash and Deli and the warmth of his own hearth fire.

A little more than half way home, walking carefully through a particularly thick and lightless grove of trees, he stumbles upon Anne. A lamp and empty basket have been cast aside in her apparent rapture and she stands in a circle of lamp light reciting Emerson to the trees.

_“Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,  
Arrives the snow…” _

She whispers, her face upturned, snowflakes disappearing against her silver-white skin. She breathes in deeply and her lips curve into a smile of uninhibited joy. Her clear voice starts up again and carries across the meters separating them, beckoning him closer.

_“…and, driving o'er the fields,_  
_Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air_  
_ Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,_  
_ And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.”_

She takes her time with each line, as if tasting every word. Her eyes have opened and with upturned palms she welcomes the caress of snowflakes. She pauses in her recital to spin in delight as the snow falls harder and tries to settle on her sky-blue coat. Her hair, loose under her hat, swings around her, a waterfall of fire. It is every possible shade of gold and red and orange against the colorless backdrop of shadows and snow. She takes his breath away.

“What is the next line?” She murmurs to herself. Gilbert takes a step forward, smiling and supplies it.

_“The sled and traveler stopped…” _Her eyes lift to his and his feet carry him inexorably closer to her. His heart pounds but his voice remains steady.

“… _the courier's feet_  
_Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit_  
_ Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed_  
_ In a tumultuous privacy of storm.”_

The snow falls around them as he steps into her circle of candlelight. Her cheeks pink as she watches him and she glances away. He resists the urge to lift her chin and force her eyes back up to his. Silence settles with the snowflakes around them. He’s so close he can see them catch on her lashes.

“Is the famous Miss Shirley practicing for her next recital? All of Redmond will fall at your feet after such a performance… though a concert hall can't rival this backdrop!”

“Oh no, I was only walking back from dropping off some of Marilla’s mountain of Christmas baking and then when the snow started up, I couldn’t help myself! You must think me rather foolish…”

“For finding the perfect poem for a snow storm?” He asks, searching out her gaze. She looks up. “Would it be foolish if I said that I think the trees were leaning closer to listen?” He raises an eyebrow and his sentence ends on that wry half laugh he sometimes uses when he’s trying to pass something serious off as casual. Then he fills his lungs, flings out his arms and with all the dramatic humor he possesses, begins to proclaim what remains of the poem to their imaginary audience.

_“Come see the north wind's masonry._  
_Out of an unseen quarry evermore_  
_ Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer_  
_ Curves his white bastions with projected roof_  
_ Round every windward stake, or tree, or door._  
_ Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work_  
_ So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he_  
_ For number or proportion.”_

He takes a deep breath, but finds her voice taking over from his; confident and clear and full of all the heedless passion she had thrown into her every word at thirteen.

_“Mockingly,_  
_On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;_  
_ A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;_  
_ Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,_  
_ Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate_  
_ A tapering turret overtops the work.”_

His voice joins hers for the last of it.

_“And when his hours are numbered, and the world_  
_Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,_  
_ Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art_  
_ To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,_  
_ Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,_  
_ The frolic architecture of the snow.”_

He takes a bow and claps his hands until she laughingly curtsies, then wobbles and slips in the puddle of snow melt beneath her lantern. Her arms wind mill, catch his coat and bring him down with her. The lantern clatters over and the candle goes out. He can feel her breath on his cheek as he pushes himself up, slightly off her. Their laughter dies down. Her face fills his vision as his eyes adjust to the darkness. If he leaned just a little bit closer… He looks down at her, into her… seeking. Seeking what? Permission, encouragement? There’s something there, waiting in her eyes for him, something beyond the dazed surface. A curiosity? She’s looking at his lips.

“Anne…” Her name comes from somewhere deep in his chest, sounding like something between a question and a prayer. It breaks whatever spell she was under. She blinks.

“I’m so sorry.” She stutters, shifting and pulling herself sideways. He begrudgingly shifts in the opposite direction so she is no longer touching him. She tries to get up but is hampered by her skirts. “Marilla always says my mind is so flighty I barely see the ground I’m walking on. And I’ve pulled you down with me!” He pushes himself up and offers her his hand as she babbles. She looks at the palm at her eye level and then away.

“I’m quite alright, thank you!” She straightens her skirt and manoeuvres her legs so they’re beneath her. “Wouldn’t want to pull you over again!” Then she pushes herself up to her knees, scorning his outreached hand. He tries not to let his disappointment show. “Blasted skirts are a nuisance; I should just wear pants like Miss Stacey and scandalize every proper Presbyterian from here to Carmody!” Finally on her feet again, she straightens, somehow managing to look regal even covered in melting snow. He can’t help but laugh. She looks down at herself and her nervous chatter dissolves into laughter of her own.

“I hope Mrs Lynde doesn’t see you on your way home! She’ll think you’re a snow monster… or perhaps the spirit of someone recently drowned!”

“You’re one to talk, last summer when you were helping us paint she said you walked right into town so covered in green that you looked like Birnam Wood on the march!”

“Mrs Lynde said I looked like something out of Shakespeare? I’m flattered!” He says and she laughs in response.

“I really should go... with the snow as it is, Marilla will worry.”

“Will you be alright without your lamp?”

“I think I could probably walk this path blindfolded.”

“I could run home for matches or walk with you?”

“Oh no, really Gilbert, I’ll be perfectly alright. Go home and warm up!” She insists, picking up the fallen lamp and her basket.

“Okay…Will I be seeing you for Christmas?”

“Of course, we wouldn’t subject Deli to your attempts at cooking on Christmas… that just wouldn’t be Christian.” She teases.

“Well then, tell Marilla I look forward to the usual Christmas feast!”

“I will. Goodnight Gilbert”

“Goodnight Anne”

* * *

Note: The Snow-Storm is a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson and does not belong to me. This was my first attempt at a fanfic in years. I'm definitely rusty but I watched the latest episode of Anne with an E and couldn't resist! I should probably delete a few more adjectives, but I thought Anne would likely forgive them ;) 


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